


Streets of London

by mycitruspocket



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Friendship, Homelessness, M/M, Paternal Lestrade, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-07-26 06:07:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7563229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mycitruspocket/pseuds/mycitruspocket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You remember when I first met Sherlock?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Streets of London

**Author's Note:**

> Written for techomech who won this fic in the auction for the Rupert Graves Birthday Project 2016. Enjoy, and thanks for donating! 
> 
> Beta read by my lovely friend Erasmus_Jones, thanks!

Greg stares into the fireplace, the Sci-Fi thriller in his lap forgotten. Instead of reading about discovering foreign planets, he wiggles his toes and feels the warmth of the fire seep into his skin. After spending the day in the cold and getting wet feet at a crime scene at the bank of the Thames, Greg feels oddly privileged to feel his body warm up like this.

When he came home, Mycroft had the fire burning brightly and was putting the kettle on as soon as Greg walked through the front door. Now they sit with naked feet propped on the large footstool between their two armchairs and Greg warms up from the inside looking at Mycroft all relaxed with his reading glasses on.

Greg stretches out his leg until he can stroke his toes over the delicate arch of Mycroft’s foot. He’s not ticklish, so he doesn’t flinch, but looks up from his book, takes off his glasses and smiles fondly. Having Mycroft’s undivided attention still makes Greg feel very special, and sometimes the intensity of it makes him shiver, but today it helps him to warm up even the ice cold tips of his ears.

Mycroft just keeps on smiling and waits patiently for Greg to tell him what’s bothering him because he knows him better than Greg knows himself most of the time. Greg gives Mycroft’s foot one last gentle caress before settling back comfortably into the armchair.

“You remember when I first met Sherlock?”

Mycroft’s eyebrows arch, of course he does.

“How could I forget such horrid times? I’m only grateful in hindsight because it brought you into our lives.”

“You’d better only speak for yourself, love. Not sure Sherlock would agree with you on that one,” Greg chuckles, but Mycroft looks at him sternly because he doesn’t like it when Greg sells himself short.

“He would, you know that.”

And yes, of course Greg knows, only sometimes he has as hard a time admitting it as Sherlock does.

“I found a kid in the same alley today. Thin jacket, no hat, no gloves and it was bloody freezing out! Gave him my scarf, because he said he wouldn’t go to the nearest hostel for the night, said he’d been there before and got bullied. I could see he was scared and didn’t want to go back there. Do you know what he said? That he feels safer sleeping under the stars, can you imagine that?”

Greg studies Mycroft carefully. Mycroft knows he’d worn the scarf he gave him for Christmas today, saw him leave the house with it and come back without. Going by the soft smile on his lips and the slow nod, he approves of Greg giving it away, like he’d seen the lost look in the boy’s eyes as well and understood.

“I went back to him after work, got him a cuppa from the shop at the corner and told them to keep an eye on him. Just couldn’t stop thinking about this kid, you know? He must be around 20, same age I found Sherlock. More polite though, didn’t spit on me when I offered help,” Greg chuckles.

He huffs at the old memory in delight, he remembers it fondly now that he knows it has a happy ending. A young Sherlock, bored out of his mind, chose to live on the streets of London for six weeks during the coldest winter Greg can remember – for science, Greg found out after those six weeks. Maybe it just felt so fucking cold then because he couldn’t stop worrying about Sherlock, just like it felt extra cold today.

Sherlock had explained his experiment to Greg later, he’d wanted “the authentic experience” and that was why he refused to take Greg’s offer of general help.

“Wish I could make him go to the new day centre, at least, the one that opened up in December. They seem to be doing great there, really nice people, only heard good things about them. They specialised on the young ones, the ones who haven’t got used to the life out there yet. It’s easier to get them settled again within the first few weeks, they say.”

Greg sighs, glad Mycroft always gives him the time he needs to talk about the difficult days at work. He is still looking at him, patiently waiting for Greg to finish his story.

“I’ll keep an eye on him, not much else I can do, really,” Greg says, resigned, because he always wishes he could do more.

Mycroft’s smile grows impossibly wide and he puts his book and glasses away.

“Gregory Lestrade, you don’t realise the massive impact you have on many people's lives. The kindness of your soul knows no boundaries. It’s one of many things I love most about you, and not only love, no, admire! I admire your ability to give people the courage they need to see themselves in a different light. I’m proud to say that I’m speaking from my own experience here, Greg.”

Greg swallows hard, his mouth is too dry all of a sudden and he feels his face heat up as Mycroft keeps talking in his serious voice. He speaks calmly and with confidence, but there is also an excited edge to his voice that Greg doesn’t often hear.

“With you at my side I feel motivated to tackle even the dullest tasks of the daily life and find them enjoyable, I feel alive and whole, and most importantly, I feel loved. You inspire greatness in me, as you do in others, and every day I love you more because of that.”

Suddenly Mycroft is too far away and Greg stands quickly, stumbles the few feet over to fall into Mycroft’s lap and kisses him desperately. The amused huff when Greg settles in more comfortably for a longer snog tells him Mycroft might have hoped for this kind of non-verbal reaction to his speech.

“Thank you,” Greg murmurs into Mycroft’s mouth, not willing to pull away just yet. He cups Mycroft’s jaw, tilts his head back so he can kiss him even deeper.

When they do come up for air, Mycroft rests their foreheads together and looks at him intently.

“You saved Sherlock all those years ago, if not from the streets, then from his own demons. You gave him purpose with your offer of consulting for you, something for him to finally focus his mind on for longer periods of time. We will both be ever grateful that you found him, that you cared the way you did, and the way you still care.” Mycroft puts his hand on the nape of Greg’s neck and squeezes gently. “For the both of us,” he adds breathlessly.

“I won’t ever stop caring for the both of you, I promise,” Greg whispers, it’s hard to speak around the lump in his throat.

Greg honestly doesn’t know what else to say, can’t find the words, so he kisses him again. He also doesn’t ever want to stop kissing Mycroft, especially not when he moans so deliciously, slips his other hand in the back pocket of Greg’s jeans and pulls him close against him.

*

Greg checks on the kid the next morning and is relieved to find he’s as ok as he can be, a cup from the corner café already in hand. He gives him one of the silly woollen beanies his mum knits for him and the kid gives him his name in return. Clive puts the neon green beanie on with a huge grin.

When he comes back in the late afternoon, Greg sees someone sitting beside Clive on the pavement, dark curls bounce with every emphasised word in a very familiar way as Sherlock talks to the kid.

Greg smiles to himself. He doesn’t want to interrupt so he uses the time he waits to thank the woman from the shop for keeping an eye on Clive and gets himself a coffee. He waits out of sight on the corner until he sees Sherlock coming out of the alley, walking in his direction.

Sherlock stops in front of him, ignoring his personal space as always.

“He’ll go with you tomorrow, to that day centre you talked about.”

“How…,” Greg shakes his head in wonder, Sherlock will never stop surprising him.

“Mycroft told me.”

“Yeah, I figured. No, I meant, how did you change his mind?”

“Does it matter?” Sherlock smiles at him, one of his rare honest smiles, and walks away without another word. His coat collar is turned up, his gloved hands are buried deep in the pockets of his long coat and the scarf Greg gave him so many years ago blows in the wind.

Greg shakes his head at him again, this time in amusement. No, it doesn’t matter at all.

*

The next day they sit at a table at the day centre, two cups of steaming tea between them. Clive puts four spoons of sugar in his and then stirs it with delight for a minute. Then he pours some milk into it, very carefully, and watches how the liquids mix with interest. He grins at Greg when he licks the spoon clean and puts it neatly onto the saucer.

It’s a nice place, so different from what was available when he’d tried to get Sherlock off the streets for at least a few hours. The walls are painted with bright colours, the tables and comfortable chairs are scattered across the room in small groups, some secluded in the corners for those who want a bit of privacy. It’s spacious and doesn’t feel crowded even though the hall is filled with many homeless people seeking warmth and comfort.

Clive wraps his hands around the cup and smiles at Greg. It’s a start.

**Author's Note:**

> General idea loosely inspired by Stuart: A Life Backwards, because Stuart's on my mind these days and I thought about him and the things he taught us while writing this.
> 
> Obviously, the title is from the Ralph McTell song. ;)


End file.
